"I—I'm afraid I don't just take you?"
"I mean, wouldn't you rather be an emperor among your own people than fetch and carry—as so many others are doing—for Wall Street?"
"That's just the point. Only the boot is on the other leg. Wall Street needs the West. Wall Street doesn't think so. It's away behind the times. Those people downtown are so stuck on themselves that they think the whole country is stooping with its ear to the ground listening to what they're doing. Why, Mrs. Rumsen, there are men in the West—big men, too—who think Wall Street is a joke. Funny, isn't it? Wall Street doesn't seem to know that millions of acres of corn, of wheat, and potatoes keep growing just the same. Those things don't wait to hear what Wall Street thinks. Only God Almighty can make 'em stop growing. And as long as they grow, we don't bother much."
She smiled approvingly.
"Then why do you care?"
"Oh, I'm a kind of missionary. These people downtown are heathen critters. They're so ignorant about their own country it almost makes me ashamed to talk to them."
The last vestige of the grenadier aspect in Mrs. Rumsen had vanished, and her face dissolved in smiles.
"Heathens! They are," she laughed delightedly. "Critters—yes, critters, too. Splendid! Have you told Cornelius—my brother—that?"
Wray's truffle stuck in his throat and he gasped, "Good God, ma'am! No. You won't tell him, will you?"
"I'd like to," she chuckled. "But I won't."